Mostly Deductions
by DrewsUsername
Summary: The title says it all. I'm far too lazy to write entire stories, but I do enjoy coming up with small bits. This will be an ongoing series consisting primarily of Holmes delivering superhuman deductions to awed people. I will update sporadically.
1. Chapter 1

Watson's Mysterious Mr. Smith

There is no place in the world I would have rather been than the sitting room of 221B Baker Street on that dreadfully cold night in early November.

The snow that had been falling on London since the late afternoon was now just barely visible through the sheet of frost that painted the room's two large windows. Mrs. Hudson had been kind enough to light a crackling fire that instantly consumed any draft or chill that attempted to enter our cozy chamber.

Settled comfortably in my usual spot on the sofa, I was reading the evening edition of the _Chronicle_ and smoking a superb blend of Balkan tobacco I had purchased earlier that day.

Holmes was sitting at his desk with one of his notebooks open, engrossed in memorizing the heights and weights of the hundred most wanted criminals in London.

Holmes suddenly broke our easy silence by casually asking "So, Watson, how much were you promised today for a second printing of '_The Hound of the Baskervilles'_?"

I looked up from my paper.

"But… how do you know about that, Holmes?" I asked incredulously. "I haven't said a word of it. In fact, I went out of my way today to try and keep it from you. I knew you would only give me grief for it."

"Well, my dear Watson, you failed, miserably," Holmes said with a smirk.

"Tell me, then. How on earth did you find out?"

Holmes looked up at me from his notebook.

"I observed and then I deduced," he said simply as he stood to move to the spot in front of the mantelpiece where he preferred to give his explanations.

"You see, Watson, this morning I heard your footsteps when you tried to sneak past my bedroom door on your way out. I immediately went to the corner window there and saw you hail a cab. While you were waiting, you appeared unusually happy for a man standing in the biting cold of the English winter. You were also rubbing your hands together - not in the quick, vigorous manner one was does for warmth - but in the slow, greedy way a spoiled heir would upon hearing the sum of his immense inheritance."

I grimaced and sank in my seat a bit.

"You then got into a cab and proceeded to head north. I asked Mrs. Hudson if she knew where you might be going and she said you had mentioned you had business with a Mr. Smith and probably wouldn't be returning until supper."

I grumbled. "I asked her not to tell you."

"I know. She mentioned that as well," Holmes said with a slight smile.

"Now I asked myself, who is this Mr. Smith of the north? A patient? Unlikely. No, I have never once seen you visibly excited about going to see a patient, and you hadn't taken your medical bag with you. A friend or family member, perhaps? Equally improbable. All of the few friends and relatives you have spoken of live to the south and none have the name of Smith. You would also not have used the word 'business' to describe a friendly visit or leisure activity, so I eliminated those possibilities. That left me with the idea of a business associate. Since the only business you have outside of your practice is your writings for _The Strand_, whose office is north of here, I concluded that this Mr. Smith must somehow be associated that _illustrious_ periodical."

He shot me a look to accompany his small jab at the magazine that had helped to make his name a household word. He walked over to his desk and picked up an issue and held it for me to see.

"Upon consulting the table of contents of this old copy of _The Strand _here, I was not surprised to discover that the editor was a Mr. Greenhough Smith, and that the mystery was solved. Are you satisfied?"

He tossed the magazine back on his desk and grabbed his long-stemmed churchwarden pipe off the mantelpiece and a bit of tobacco out of the Persian slipper. He dropped himself down into his chair with a small sigh.

"All right, I can follow all of that, but how did you know about the second printing?"

"Simple," he said as he lit his pipe and threw the match over his shoulder into the fire. He allowed himself a long drag of his shag tobacco and an exhalation of toxic blue smoke before he proceeded.

"I observed yesterday, on my return home from the bookstore, that every newsstand I passed was running very low on this month's issue of _The Strand_, and that doesn't usually occur until the end of the month. I made inquiries and was told by a cashier that your little yarn about our time at the Baskerville estate was a sensation. People have been asking for it by name, apparently. Now, when I paired this information to my earlier observation of your excited demeanor and then to my deduction about your mysterious Mr. Smith, it seemed evident to me that you were going to see him about some additional payment for another printing. Since you've been as chipper as a bird all evening, and are now smoking the rather expensive Balken blend you purchased today to celebrate, it's safe to assume that you will indeed be receiving the extra capital you had been hoping for when you left this morning."

I couldn't help but grin and concede defeat. "Ah, I see. I see. Very good, Holmes. There's no getting anything by you. You truly are the master of deduction."

"That, Watson, is only because I am its most dedicated student," Holmes said and quickly pushed himself up out of his chair and returned to his desk to continue memorizing.


	2. The Frightened and Exhausted Visitor

The Frightened and Exhausted Visitor

The morning had promised clear skies and a respite from the near daily showers us unfortunate Londoners had been experiencing for weeks. My hopes were dashed however when, after barely eating a delicious breakfast prepared by our housekeeper, Holmes had taken a single glance at the barometer and said, "I hope you didn't have plans for the afternoon, Watson. Something wicked this way comes."

At around midday, the sky took a sudden turn towards darkness and rain began to come down in fat drops that popped hard on the windows of our sitting room. Wind rushed through the manmade tunnel of Baker Street. I felt quite thankful to be protected from this attack by the walls of our humble flat and hoped any poor soul caught in the sudden storm was able to quickly find their own badly needed shelter.

Holmes laid down on the couch at the arrival of the storm, his usual position for the past two weeks. I was seated at the breakfast table, enjoying a rollicking historical novel that a patient had recommended to me.

"Rain again? Shocking," Holmes said and began rapidly tapping his fingers on his chest.

"Crime has been unusually sparse for this time of year," he continued. "Summer is the season when the greatest amount of murders are commited, but we have yet to have a single one of interest."

"Is that so?" I said with a bit more interest than I felt in an attempt to raise the spirits of my old friend. I knew that it was either going to be conversation or an injection of diluted cocaine for Holmes.

"Quite. Sometime back, I began writing a monograph on the weather's effect on inclination towards crime but quickly aborted it when I realized it would be of no practical use to anyone…much like myself for these past few weeks."

"Holmes…"

"It's no use, Watson. Ignore me. I feel the ennui taking me over. Perhaps another nap will help."

I did not care to see Holmes caged up like this. It produced in me a feeling similar to the one I had when viewing the lions at the Zoological Gardens at Regent's Park. It seemed unfair and unnatural to confine the beasts and limit their capacities. It is in their very nature to roam their kingdom pursuing prey. In the same manner, Sherlock Holmes is meant to be roaming London, chasing its most clever criminals, struggling with some unsolvable problem, not sitting idly on a couch with nothing to occupy his mind.

Providence has a strange way of occasionally granting us our wishes for at that very moment a soft, but very urgent, beating on the front door became perceptible followed shortly by a frantic ringing of our doorbell.

Holmes shot up straight, completely alert, much like a housecat who had just heard an alarming sound.

"Who on Earth…" I began.

"It's a woman. She's frightened," he said quickly.

"How do you…"

"Never mind that! It's more than the weather she's trying to escape. Watson, make sure she's alone."

I jumped to the window, threw the curtain aside, and surveyed the scene below. From my vantage point, I was unable to see anything but an empty street through streams of rain.

"I can't see our visitor or anyone else for that matter," I said over my shoulder.

Holmes simply nodded as he listened intently.

Mrs. Hudson's footsteps could be heard making haste towards the door below. A pleading and desperate female voice quickly followed.

"You were correct," I said. "It is most certainly a woman."

"Yes, she has been using her palms on the door without much effect. A man would have been able to produce greater force or simply used his knuckles or walking stick. Listen! Here she comes."

Before I had time to consider the validity of Holmes's logic our sitting room door burst open. Within its frame stood a very pretty, but clearly distraught young woman. I estimated her age to be twenty and five upon first glance. She took a step forward and dropped down to one knee in what appeared to be nervous exhaustion.

Holmes rushed to her side and picked her up. "There, there," he said soothingly as he led her to the chair near the fire. "You are safe."

"Watson, brandy," he commanded. I moved quickly to the liquor cabinet to fulfill the order.

Mrs. Hudson came into the room, out of breath from running up the stairs. "Mr. Holmes, I…"

"Go bolt the front door and allow no one in, understood?"

Mrs. Hudson clearly had more to say, but the authority with which Holmes spoke sent her off on this errand immediately.

I handed the poor girl a small glass of brandy and her shaking hands brought it to her lips. She was able to drink a bit, but the expression on her face clearly showed she did not care for the taste.

Holmes sat in the chair across from her.

"Did you see anyone following you?

I could see that it took great effort for her to nod. Holmes seemed pleased by this confirmation.

"I have little doubt that you are aware of this, but I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend and colleague Dr. Watson. To whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?"

"My…my…Adriana…my name is Adriana Calloway," she managed to get out. Her voice was shaky, but her accent was clearly American.

"Ms. Calloway, you are obviously too disturbed to state your case at the moment. While you collect yourself, I will collect some data."

Holmes began to study the poor girl in his usual detached manner. She seemed a bit confused by his statement and odd examination, but she simply downed another drink like a weary patient who has to take a bitter medicine.

"Hmmm. Interesting," Holmes said to himself as his eyes returned to our client's. Some amount of curiosity now seemed to replace the fear or panic that had overtaken the young lady.

"What…what is interesting," she asked with a bit more composure and strength then before.

"Oh, nothing. Did you get a good look at the person who was following you?

"No…and…to be honest…I'm not sure I didn't just imagine it either," she said, looking somewhat ashamed.

Holmes looked up at me with a raised eyebrow and then back to our visitor. "Do you now feel up to enlightening us as to why you have braved the elements in order to consult me?"

She put the empty glass down on the side table. "I…I don't know where to begin. There is so much to relay for my situation to make any sense to you."

Holmes leaned forward.

"Allow me to make it easier for you. I will tell you what I have already gleaned and you can fill in the rest. Stop me if any corrections need to be made."

Our client seemed to be even more confused than before but nodded cautiously.

"You grew up in the countryside somewhere in America. Your family is in a very comfortable position financially and they support you. You are at least thirty years of age and belong to a respectable club back home. You are a violinist. You have been in London for some months now, for what reason I don't know, and are currently boarded up at 13 Old Bond Street. Your life has been quite idyllic and unburdened until very recently when some event occurred that has kept you in a state of constant distress. Whatever this interruption to your otherwise peaceful life is, it came to a head today and compelled you to make the three mile walk to come and see me. You made it past Trafalgar Square and then were able to secure a cab before it began to rain."

A strange look came over our visitor's face. "What is this?!" she shrieked. Before either Holmes or I could react, the woman had grabbed the iron poker from our fireplace hearth and was pointing it back and forth at us.

"Madam!" I protested.

"Stay back! Both of you! You could not possibly know any of what you just said, all of it true, without someone informing you of it. Are you the ones that have been harassing me? Are _you_ the source of the conspiracy against me?!"

Holmes seemed more annoyed than startled. He addressed her as he would a petulant child.

"I assure you Ms. Calloway that I didn't know you existed before you walked into this…"

"Ha! Do you really expect me to believe that, that you simply _divined_ this information about me?

"No, not at all. Everything I just said was derived from practical deduction that would be obvious to any…"

"Nonsense! Tell me! Tell me how you know all of these things about me! I demand it!"

"I had every intention of doing so. Please sit," Holmes said while motioning to the chair. Ms. Calloway didn't move a muscle, so with a sigh and slight rolling of the eyes, Holmes began his explanation.

"That you are American is obvious by your accent. Anyone with ears would be able to come to that conclusion.

The small s-shaped pin you are wearing upon your collar is only given to those who are staying at the Sandringham Club of 13 Old Bond Street. In the past, that would have indicated that you were British and someone of title and position, but the club has recently made a departure from its ordinary rules in admitting to its privileges, upon payment of a very reasonable fee, any American woman who may be sojourning in London, who brings credentials from American clubs to which she belongs, and is above thirty years of age. Since you are clearly not a British aristocrat, you must therefore be the latter.

That you have been residing here in London for some months is clearly indicated by the wingtipped patent leather boots you are wearing. That particular style is solely available in European markets and only since March of this year. It is now August, and yours already look to be fairly worn. The marks on the heel and sole plainly show months of daily contact with the cobblestone streets of London.

The caked white dirt around the lip of your outsoles show that you have very recently walked through Trafalgar Square, which just broke ground yesterday on some sorely needed repairs. You would not have done so if you had taken a cab straight here, so you must have walked and then hailed a cab before it began to rain, either to escape the person you believed was following you or the ensuing storm. You have no umbrella with you and you are not soaked to the bone, so it is the only rational possibility.

As to my conclusions about the ease of your general situation, your complexion and light hair speak of years spent out in the sunshine of the countryside. You are at least thirty years of age and do not have any lines across your forehead or around your eyes, made even more remarkable by the fact that you wear no powder on your face. Only a predominately carefree life would permit such an unnaturally youthful appearance."

Holmes pulled a briarwood pipe out from his jacket and reached over to the Persian slipper for a small handful of tobacco.

"My remaining deductions were founded upon an examination of your hands. They are usually a treasure trove of information and yours did not disappoint."

Ms. Calloway looked down at one hand while keeping her improvised weapon raised in the other.

"Firstly, when I helped you up I couldn't fail to notice that the skin upon your palms is as soft as silk. You have evidently never been forced to do any real labor, manual or domestic. Your fingers are also without a ring, so it is most probable that you are supported financially by your parents. If they have the means to provide such a lifestyle and can afford to send you on an extended trip to London, they must be fairly well off.

Secondly, your fingertips are calloused on the left hand only, exactly as my own, hence you are a violinist, or perhaps a cellist."

Holmes reached to the side of his chair and patted his old Stradivarius.

"Finally, and I believe most importantly, all of your fingernails have been bitten hard but only at the tips. Nails chewed over long periods become ridged and uneven. Yours are still smooth. This tells me that the nervous habit has only been recently acquired and it stands to reason that there must have been some catalyst."

Having concluded his oratory, Holmes struck a match and lit his pipe allowing a little moment for our contemplation and perhaps dramatic effect.

"You see? There is nothing mysterious or conspiratorial about any of it."

Ms. Calloway's eyes moved back and forth across the floor in front of her. I could see her trying to work out and reconcile the extraordinary reasoning my friend had just laid out before us, as I was in my own mind. In a few moments, she lowered our poker and raised her head. In a quiet and humbled voice she said "My, that's all very perceptive of you, Mr. Holmes. I… I can see that your reputation is quite justified. Please forgive me for my behavior. I have not been myself lately."

Holmes shrugged and waved away her apology.

"The fault is my own. All is forgotten. Now, as best as you can, with the greatest attention to detail, pray, tell us what it is that has brought on this late agitation."

She returned the poker to its rightful place and softly sat herself down in the chair with her hands in her lap.

"I shall do my best. I don't even know where to begin…Oh, I'm sorry. I've never been very good at telling stories."

Holmes brought his steepled fingertips to his chin, reclined in his chair, and closed his eyes.

"The facts will do."


End file.
